Thine Own Self
by Burked
Summary: GS. When Grissom and Catherine are at odds with each other, it's Sara who gets put in the middle.


**Title:               **Thine Own Self****

**Author:**           Burked

**Email: **            res0rvm5@verizon.net

**Rating:**            PG-13 for language

**Disclaimers:   **CSI is not mine, so they don't let me have any of the money ... or play with the actors.

**Summary:       **G/S.  When a case puts GG and CW at odds with each other, SS gets thrust into the middle.

**Thanks:          **To Mossley, as always.  Not only for beta duties, but for naming it.  Thanks also to betas Laredo Grissom and Laura Katherine.

* * * * *

Sara's first inclination was to turn abruptly on one heel and walk right back out of the break room.  When two people are tossing verbal grenades at each other, it's usually best to put some distance between you and the battleground.  It started as a mere skirmish a couple of days ago, but had been steadily building.  Sara wanted no part of it.  

'To hell with it.  I want my coffee, and maybe the interruption will give them time to calm down,' she thought, steeling herself.

"Damn you, Grissom!  I am _not_ going to let you get away with this!" Catherine screamed.  She was so angry that Sara could see the hair shaking against her the sides of her face as she stood defiantly, with her hands on her hips. 

"This is just what I'm talking about!" Grissom said, at a lower volume, but just as harshly.  "You're too emotionally involved in this case, and it's blinded you to the evidence."

The two were so enmeshed in their argument that neither acknowledged Sara's presence.  She wasn't sure if they were even aware that she had entered the room.

"I'm not emotional over the case!  I'm emotional that you are trying to _railroad _that poor man!"

"I think you had better rephrase that, Catherine," Grissom growled.

"I will not!"

Sara's head moved back and forth between the two like it was a tennis match.  She knew she should say or do something to defuse the situation, but she didn't want to jump in at the wrong time and risk getting broadsided by either or both of them.  And frankly, she was enjoying seeing someone stand up to Grissom.

"You aren't being rational," Grissom said dismissively.

"You aren't being human," Catherine retorted.

"I'm not paid to be human.  I'm paid to be rational.  We are supposed to collect and analyze evidence.  The evidence doesn't lie, and the evidence says the father is the most viable suspect."

"Bullshit!  The evidence is not conclusive.  Anyone with even a teeny bit of humanity would be able to see that there's no way he killed his own kid.  No way.  I don't give a flying fuck what the evidence tells _you_."

"Exactly my point.  You want to ignore the evidence because it doesn't fit your emotional response as a parent.  It is not our job to make that decision, but a jury's."  

"So you don't even care that you are going to destroy the man, after he's already had his world taken from him?  You are a bastard, you know that?"

"I'm doing no such thing.  What do you want me to do?  What is it you think I _can_ do?  We have the evidence.  We have to give it to the DA.  It's his decision from there."

"I will fight you every step of the way," Catherine hissed.

"You're taking this too far," Grissom warned solemnly.

"Oh, you don't know 'too far' yet!  I will be perfectly happy to testify for the defense on this case."

"We don't work for either side, Catherine.  We just present the evidence and our analysis of it, so your childish threat is moot," Grissom said harshly.

"Yeah?  You and I both know that it is the prosecution who presents the evidence that we explain.  Therefore, we are essentially prosecution witnesses.  And I'm going to let the defense know that I don't agree with your analysis one iota."

Sara winced.  This had finally gotten completely out of hand.  What may have begun as a professional disagreement had just passed over into dangerous territory.  She knew that if the two CSIs on the case presented conflicting testimony, it could destroy the credibility of the entire department, impacting more than just this one case.

"Whoa!  Whoa!" Sara said, positioning herself between the two combatants.  "Let's calm down a little here before something gets said that can't be lived down."

Both Grissom and Catherine shot glares at Sara's uninvited and unwelcome intrusion.  Tempers were running at fever pitch and neither wanted to back down.

"Let's just call a truce for a minute.  There's got to be some way to work this out," Sara offered, her voice purposefully deep and soothing.

"I don't see how.  He's intent on crucifying an innocent man," Catherine told her, pointing accusingly at Grissom.

Grissom dropped his face into his hands and rocked his head back and forth, amazed at Catherine's utter disregard for the facts of the case.  "Look, Catherine," Grissom said, exhaling sharply.  "If he didn't do it, then I feel for the guy.  Really.  It's would be a shitty deal to lose a kid then be accused of doing it.  And I want nothing more than to find out who killed that little girl.  The only way I know how to do that is to follow the evidence."

"I don't think we have all the evidence," Catherine replied, shaking her head.

"Why don't you two have a neutral person review the evidence?" Sara asked.

After only a moment's hesitation for thought, Grissom asked, "Warrick or Sara?" 

"Doesn't matter to me," Catherine shrugged.

Grissom looked at Sara, his eyes narrowed in thought.  He considered whether he would want her to do the review.  He knew she was good, and she was thorough – probably more thorough than Warrick when it comes to physical evidence.  That was a positive, but he could immediately think of several negatives.

Grissom considered how their relationship had been strained for quite some time, and he knew that his rejection of her dinner offer had only made it worse.  When she found out about his otosclerosis and surgery after the fact, she was hurt, then livid, that he had hidden it from her.  She had barely spoken more than a dozen words to him in the past several weeks, despite his tentative attempts to rebuild the bridges he had burned.

He also thought about her tendency to get emotionally involved in cases herself, not unlike Catherine.  However, since she was not a parent, he thought it was possible that she would aim that emotionality at a more appropriate target.

Grissom also feared that, as a woman, she might feel more empathetic to Catherine than to him.  She did have a bit of a feminist streak in her.

"Tell you what," Sara said, breaking the silence.  "Why don't I talk to Warrick about it.  We can decide between us who will do the review.  Maybe we can work together on it."

"I can't have every CSI in the building working on one case," Grissom huffed.  "Especially one that by all rights ought to be closed."

Catherine started to open her mouth to speak, but Sara cut her off.  "Then you two and Nick cover the other cases, and let Warrick and me finish off this one.  No difference in manpower," she said triumphantly.

Grissom and Catherine begrudgingly looked at each other and then at Sara.  They nodded their assent, then each stormed off their separate ways.

'Sara Sidle, I think you've really stepped in it this time,' she said to herself.  

* * * * *

"No way.  Uh uh.  I wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pool," Warrick said, physically retreating from Sara.

"Come on.  You've got to help me on this.  You should have heard them going at each other."

"That's why I'm not going to get involved.  There's no way to win on this one.  If we say Grissom is right, Cath will be pissed.  And I, for one, do not even want that to happen.  If we say Catherine is right, Grissom will be pissed.  Last time I checked, he was still our boss.  It's a no-win situation."

"That's why we have to work together.  If we both agree, it will lessen the blowback to either of us."

"Why can't Nick do it?  He's got nothing to lose."

"What the hell are you talking about, Warrick?  There's no way Nicky could tolerate the emotional pressure of this, and you know it.  And just what is it you think we have to lose?"

"Don't act dumb, Sara.  It doesn't work with me.  You know what I'm talking about."

"Oh.  I think I get it now," Sara said, suddenly realizing that the conversation had turned personal.  "Well, that's not an issue for me anymore."

"Well, it's still an issue for me.  I'm not going to shoot myself in the foot with Catherine.  You know that I've been trying to get closer to her.  I'm not going to let a fight between her and Grissom screw that up."

"Their fight could tear this entire department to shreds.  Would you rather have one of them a little embarrassed, or have the whole department humiliated?"

"I'm not saying that a review shouldn't be done.  I'm just saying that I'm not going to do it.  Get Nick to help you.  You're strong enough for the both of you," Warrick said, trying flattery where argument had failed.

"They said me or you, or both.  They never mentioned Nicky.  Now you can make whatever you want to out of that."

"I don't think they give Nick enough credit.  He could do this."

"I agree, but the point is, whether they are right or wrong, they don't want Nicky to do it."

"Well, I guess you're on your own then.  And before you get all pissy with me, remember that this was your idea.  You suggested it, so you have to live with it."

"Arrrrrrgh!  Just shoot me now!" she begged Warrick.  

* * * * *

"Grissom, please amend the logs to show that I am officially assigned to the Spencer case," Sara requested coolly.  "I don't want any trouble with the techs or the coroner."

"So you and Warrick decided that you'd handle the review?" he asked.

"Warrick decided it," she snorted.

"He has wisdom beyond his years," Grissom mumbled, logging onto the computer to make the necessary changes in the case file.

"I'd like for Nick to help," Sara said firmly.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Grissom answered.

"He can do the work," Sara argued.

"I don't doubt that," Grissom rejoined, looking back up to her.

"Don't you trust him?"

"I do.  But he's not as independent as you are," Grissom explained.

"You mean he's not stupid enough to go against either you or Catherine."

"No," Grissom laughed.  "I mean he's not _strong enough to go against either me or Catherine, without it stressing him out too much.  He's still too concerned about what we think about him."_

"And I'm not," Sara said, more than asked.

"Let's face it, Sara, you never did give a damn about what Catherine thought about you.  That's actually one of the things she likes best about you."

"Do you think I give a damn about what you think?" she pressed.

"Not anymore," he answered more honestly than Sara would have expected.

Sara smiled ruefully.  "You're right."  

"You will be objective, won't you?" Grissom asked cautiously.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"This would be a golden opportunity to get back at me."

"Damn, Grissom.  Your opinion of me just keeps getting lower, doesn't it?" Sara huffed, the anger evident on her face.

Grissom exhaled and rubbed his forehead.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know why I said that."

"You said it because you know that you would probably deserve it.  But the day I compromise the evidence on a case for a personal vendetta, is the day I quit.  Right before I shoot myself."  

"I trust you," Grissom said simply.

"Good.  I also trust that there will be no professional ramifications from this review.  You and Catherine are both higher up the departmental evolutionary scale than I am.  I don't want any flack from either of you, no matter what the outcome is."

"Is that your opinion of me?" Grissom asked, mirroring the hurt she had felt.

"You don't want to know my opinion of you," Sara answered, holding out her hand for the case file.

* * * * *

Sara took the file to a layout room to review, spreading the pictures out on the table before her.  She only glanced at them briefly before reading.  She would examine each more closely as it was mentioned in the narrative.

According to the case narrative, Willows and Grissom had logged into the scene at 02:47.  They were met by Detective Brass, who had only arrived moments before, at 02:43.  Brass said that the father placed a 911 call at 2:06.  The paramedics responded at 2:17, then immediately called for police.  The first officer arrived at 2:24, then called in a homicide.

He escorted them into a child's bedroom, where the suspect, John Spencer, a 25-year-old man, was sitting on the edge of the bed, still cradling his deceased four-year-old daughter.

The suspect appeared calm, rocking the dead child and singing a lullaby to her, softly stroking her face and hair.  He appeared unaware that the child was dead.

Catherine attempted to engage the man, but Spencer was unresponsive.  The child was covered in blood, concentrated primarily in the chest region.  The suspect's shirt was also blood-soaked.

Grissom recovered a kitchen knife from the bed, sitting in plain view next to Spencer.  The blade was caked with dried blood.

Sara looked up from the report to look at the first photographs.  It isn't often that a suspect is part of the evidentiary photos, but Catherine had taken a picture of him holding the child.  The picture could not be used in court, since it would be considered prejudicial, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be helpful to the investigators.

Next, she picked up the photo of the bloodstained knife, lying conspicuously on the bed.

Fingerprints had been taken from the knife handle and matched to John Spencer.  The blood on the knife was matched to his daughter, Melanie.  There were no other fingerprints other than theirs found in the room.

Greg and Hodges both examined the daughter's nightgown, finding only her blood, his and her epithelials, several of her hairs, and one of his.  

Both techs also examined his shirt, matching the blood to the child, but no other trace.

Sara set the report from Serology down and picked up the first photo again, the photo of John Spencer holding Melanie.

She thought that this case was a slam dunk, from beginning to end.  "He might as well have written 'I did it' in blood," she murmured aloud.  In the case file, Sara could not find one shred of evidence that the father didn't kill his daughter, not even a statement from him to that effect.  

'Call me cynical, but nothing is this perfect,' Sara told herself.  

The narrative had been written by Grissom, so Sara felt that she had no need to talk to him further about it at this point.  She needed to know from Catherine what her objections were.

* * * * *

"I know it doesn't sound scientific, Sara, but I just don't buy it," Catherine said, over a cup of coffee.  Sara had requested that they meet off-site, to preclude interruptions – not to mention the fact that she didn't want Grissom to see her talking to Catherine first.

"That's obvious, Cath.  I need to know why.  I've reviewed the case file, and I've never seen a stronger case.  What did you see that isn't in the file?" Sara asked, wanting to make sure that Catherine didn't think she was already siding with Grissom.

"I saw the father," she answered, shrugging.  "And I saw her, and I saw her room, and their house.  He obviously cared for her a lot.  I just couldn't see him stabbing her for no reason."

"Yeah, but he's not talking.  We don't know that there's no reason."

"Well, someone's going to have to come up with a motive for me to believe it.  It's just a feeling, a gut reaction, but I just don't think he killed her."

"Okay.  Let's say you're right.  Tell me how the evidence fits into your theory," Sara probed.

"Look, if I went into my kid's room and she was lying there in a pool of blood, I don't think I'd react any differently than he did.  I'd call 911 while I still had any wits about me at all.  Then, when the shock set in, I'd probably pick her up and hold her, too.  That's how the blood and trace got transferred."

"What about the knife?"

"If there was a knife sticking out of Lindsey's chest, I'd probably pull it out without thinking.  Not being guilty of anything, I probably wouldn't think to go put on some gloves," Catherine answered sarcastically.  

"So you think that someone else came in and killed the girl.  The father discovered it, called 911, cradled her, and pulled out the knife?"

"Yes."

"Did you find any evidence of a break-in?"

"No."

"Any evidence of a third party in the house?"

"No."

"Damn, you're not making this any easier," Sara snorted.

"If you had been there, you would have felt it.  There was love in that house.  Not anger.  Not pain.  Love.  There is no way he killed his daughter.  He's didn't talk to us because he was in shock.  Maybe you can get more out of him now, but I doubt he knows all that much about what happened."

"Grissom was there, and he didn't get that vibe," Sara replied.

"Please.  We're talking about Grissom, Mr. No Emotions.  Like he's even capable of feeling the love in the house.  I'm not entirely convinced he's capable of loving, much less sensing it in others," Catherine said flippantly.

"You're preaching to the choir," Sara mumbled.

"Sara, I'm not trying to rewrite history.  If you think the guy did it, then I'm okay with that.  Just give me a motive, and I'll jump on the bandwagon.  I just feel like we're missing something here."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Cath.  I have to admit that I am a little concerned about the possible consequences of my involvement. I always seem to be the one doing internal investigations.  I feel like people see me like the CSI version of Internal Affairs, or like Grissom's Gestapo."

"It works out well for Grissom.  He gets his answers, but doesn't have to take the heat.  He leaves that to you.  Nice guy."

"Well, he tells me that it's because he trusts me and he thinks other people will trust that I'll be objective," Sara countered, a little defensively.

"Whatever lets him sleep at night," Catherine huffed.

"How do you think he'll react if I find out you're right?" Sara asked.

"What's the worst that can happen?  He'll give you the silent treatment?  Not work on cases with you?  What has he got left to hold over your head?" Catherine chuckled.  "He's already used up all his ammunition."

"I hadn't thought about it that way, but I guess you're right.  He'd keep it on that level, wouldn't he?  He's not vindictive enough to cause me any real professional problems, is he?"

"Naw.  He's childish, but he's not unprofessional," Catherine answered, shaking her head.  "Don't worry.  You've got nothing to lose either way it goes."

"Thanks, Cath.  That makes this a whole lot less stressful," Sara said, finishing off her coffee.  "Well, it's getting to be that time that normal people are awake, so I think I'll go visit the accused."

* * * * *

John Spencer sat across from Sara, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, his hands and feet cuffed.  A Sheriff's Deputy stood by the door, watching Spencer at all times.  

Sara wasn't looking at him, but at the file, purposefully allowing the tension to build in the room by making the suspect wait in silence.  After a few minutes, Sara looked up at Spencer, but was surprised to find that he didn't appear anxious, as most suspects do, but rather he looked sadly resigned to his fate.

"Mr. Spencer, my name is Sara Sidle, and I'm reviewing your case.  May I record our conversation?"

"Yes."

"Have you been read your rights?"

"Yes."

"Would you like your lawyer present?"

"No.  I don't care," he said, shrugging.

She reminded herself that John Spencer was innocent until proven guilty, and it was his daughter that was slain. "First of all, let me say that I am sorry for your loss.  Could you please tell me what happened that evening?"

"I had fallen asleep on the couch, watching TV.  I guess I heard a noise, because something woke me up.  I went into Melanie's room, and ... and ..."  Spencer couldn't continue.  The tears that had been welling in his eyes from the moment he began speaking were now flowing freely down his face.

"It's okay, John.  Take your time," Sara said soothingly.

"I saw she was hurt, but I couldn't figure it out.  Nothing seemed to make sense, you know?  So I called 911.  I wanted to hold her until they got there.  She likes to be rocked, especially when she's not feeling good."

Sara noted on her pad that he used the present tense when talking about his daughter.  A killer usually uses the past tense, though it's not enough of a rule to be considered evidence.

"What about the knife?" Sara asked.

"I pulled her up to hold her, and I saw the knife in her chest.  I thought maybe she had gotten it from the kitchen.  Had some sort of accident.  I don't know.  None of it made any sense.  I couldn't think straight.  But there shouldn't be a knife in her chest, you know?  I pulled it out and put my hand over the hole until the paramedics got there."

"Mr. Spencer, can you think of anybody who would want to hurt Melanie ... or you?"

"She's just four years old!  Why would anyone want to hurt a little girl?  She's so sweet.  She's very good at her pre-kindergarten class.  The teacher says she's one of the nicest kids she has.  And she's smart.  Much smarter than I am."

"Where's her mother?" Sara asked gingerly.

"I don't know.  We split up when Melanie was still pretty much a baby.  She didn't really want kids, and she wasn't very good to Mel.  I ended up taking care of the baby all the time, but I didn't mind."

"When was the last time you heard from her?"

"She writes sometimes, but I don't write her back.  We don't talk.  She doesn't want to be a family.  She just wants to tell me how much she hates me all the time."

"Why does she hate you?"

"We both come from a poor background – they called us trailer trash – you know?  I was working fast food, and went to school at night to get my degree.  I wanted something better for my family. Now I manage a fast food restaurant.  I'll never be rich, but I can support myself and my daughter.  I could have supported Janice, too, but she was too into partying.  I can't afford to support my family and her drug habit, too.  So I had to divorce her, 'cause she wouldn't get help."

"Mr. Spencer, you said that your ex-wife wasn't good with Melanie.  Are you talking about neglect, abuse, what?"

"All of it.  When Mel was a baby, Janice just ignored her mostly, unless she cried too much, then she'd get furious and I'd have to take the baby out of the house, 'cause I was scared she'd hurt her.  When she got older, she'd sometimes hit Mel, for no good reason."

Sara struggled to appear impassive.  It was times like these that she truly wished she could be more like Grissom.  'Was there ever a good reason to strike a child?' she asked herself incredulously.

"It was the drugs, you know?"

Sara nodded.

"I was afraid for Mellie, so I told her to get help, but she wouldn't.  So I took the baby and left her."

"John, do you have anything that corroborates what you've said?  Medical records?  Legal papers?   Things like that."

"Sure.  In my file cabinet at home.  All of it is in the paperwork for the custody hearing I went to.  I went through all that trouble, but she didn't even fight for custody.  Can you imagine?  A mother not wanting her own kid?"

"Okay, John.  That's all for now.  I may need to speak to you again later," Sara said, nodding to the Deputy to return John Spencer to his cell.  

"I didn't kill my baby," he said as he stood, the tears flowing again.  "But I should have protected her better, so it's okay that I'm here.  I deserve to be here for not protecting my baby."  Spencer hung his head and shuffled out beside the Deputy.

* * * * *

"It's entirely possible that he didn't kill her," Sara said evenly, sitting stiffly in Grissom's office.  Catherine worked to suppress a smile, but Grissom made no effort to suppress his shock.

"Based on what evidence?" he demanded.

Sara presented him with several folders.  "I retrieved these from John Spencer's file cabinet.  His ex-wife was abusive to the child and was denied custody on those grounds.  She didn't put up any defense."

"That doesn't prove she killed her," Grissom argued.

"The next folder contains letters his ex has been sending the past few years.  They become progressively violent and threatening in character."

"Circumstantial.  None of these specifically threatened the child."

"I don't think the evidence clearly establishes his guilt," Sara stated flatly.

"Do either of you remember what we do here?" Grissom asked tersely.  "We gather evidence – not opinions.  Show me some evidence tying this woman to the crime, and I'll hunt her down myself."

"The fingerprints on the knife are all wrong," Sara continued, ignoring his outburst.  "She was lying on the bed on her left side when she was attacked, as evidenced by the blood flow down the left side of her gown and the pool on the sheet.  That meant the attacker had to hold the knife with the butt up and the blade down, in an overhanded grip.  The thumb print should be on the butt end.  But it's not.  It's on the blade end.  Like someone would grasp it to pull it out of Melanie."

"Where's the case file?" Grissom asked, taking it abruptly from Sara's hand.  He pulled out the pictures and looked at the bloodstain evidence on the clothes and the sheets.  He re-read Jacqui's report.  Sitting back in his chair, Grissom sighed.

"It's not enough," he finally said.

"What do you mean, 'not enough'?" Catherine shouted.

Grissom held up a quieting hand, not wanting this meeting to degenerate into a screaming match like the last one.

"I meant exactly what I said.  All the physical evidence, other than the fingerprint position, still points to the father.  And the fingerprint evidence isn't exclusionary.  It is not impossible to hold the knife the other way to stab her.  It may be awkward, but not impossible."

Sara sat pensively.  While she sympathized with Catherine, she understood Grissom's position, though she was loathe to admit it.

"What about a polygraph?" Sara asked.

"Even if he passes, there's still the problem of the physical evidence," he answered tiredly.

"Just what will it take to convince you?" Catherine demanded.

"It isn't me who needs to be convinced, Catherine.  That's what you're not getting.  It doesn't matter what I believe – it only matters what the jury will believe, based on the evidence."

"It does matter what you believe.  And even if you don't trust me, don't you trust Sara?" Catherine asked pointedly.

Grissom looked at Catherine with more than a little anger.  He didn't want to be put in this position, and she knew it.  He allowed his eyes to drift over to Sara, who met his gaze stonily.  He wilted under her glare and felt forced to look back at Catherine to escape it.

"This isn't an issue of trust, Catherine.  I trust both of you.  I don't know how many more times I have to say it.  It is an issue of evidence.  Pure and simple.  Bring me evidence exculpating John Spencer, or inculpating Janice Spencer."

The two distaff CSIs looked at each other, resolve settling over their features.  They simultaneously stood, with Catherine leading the way out.

"Sara, could you stay a moment?" Grissom asked quietly.

Sara stuck her head out of the door and told Catherine that she would catch up to her.  She sat back down, awaiting what she expected to be a dressing-down.

"Something made you unsure of the evidence, and it wasn't upside-down fingerprints.  Tell me what you're thinking," he said gently, not at all harassingly, as Sara had anticipated.

"I talked to the father," she said, shrugging.  "Maybe you should listen to the tape, but that wouldn't give you the whole experience.  It was little things, like him using the present tense when talking about her.  And he was so proud of her.  You could feel ... love," she said, feeling a little embarrassed by the lack of scientific evidence.

"It wouldn't be the first time a parent who loved their child ended up killing them," he countered.

"I know.  But they always have some sort of pat story.  Not Spencer.  He was confused.  He didn't understand what happened.  He didn't accuse his ex.  I had to ask him about her, and he still didn't put two and two together."

"Maybe they don't belong together," Grissom suggested.

"The Spencers?  Or two and two?" Sara asked, smirking.

"Both," Grissom answered.

"Look, Grissom, I know what our job is.  But sometimes there's more than the evidence.  It doesn't lie, but we can misunderstand it and inadvertently misrepresent it.  I agree with Catherine that we are taking the easy way out if we accept this evidence at its first blush."

"So you think I'm taking the easy way out?" Grissom asked, his voice defensive and his face pinched into a scowl.

Sara held her tongue.  She was tempted to tell him that it's a pattern she's seen all too often, though usually not relating to a case.

"That was not a rhetorical question," Grissom stated, trying to force her to answer.

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that it could make my life even more miserable than it already is," she said, a fake smile plastered on her face.

Grissom was surprised by her answer.  Not only was she implying that he would punish her in some way, but she was also blatantly stating that she was miserable.  She may have been exaggerating for effect, but he knew she wouldn't have said it if there weren't at least some germ of truth there.

"Do you seriously think that I'd do something to make your life miserable?" Grissom asked.

"Let's not go there," Sara suggested, the smile melting from her face.

Grissom sputtered, "I was talking about work."

"Let's not go there, either," Sara said flatly.

"Are you sure you can be objective on this review?  You are obviously very angry with me." 

"Yes, I am angry.  And, yes, I can be objective.  Unlike you, I can separate my feelings about my personal life from my work life."

"Oh, really?" Grissom asked, unbelieving.  "That's not how it feels to me."

"You don't have a clue," she said, getting up to escape before she lost the tenuous hold she had on her temper.

"Then explain it to me," he said, holding up his palms in supplication.

"I'm not angry with you at work because of my feelings about personal disappointments.  I'm angry because you have been punishing me professionally for personal reasons.  I could hate your guts personally and still work well with you, as long as you treated me decently and with respect while we were at work."

"So the Ice Queen treatment is because you think I'm not treating you decently at work?" Grissom clarified.

"I'm not treating you half as bad as you're treating me.  If you don't like how I'm behaving, then what makes you think I like how you've been treating me?  Don't worry;  I won't confuse a good working relationship with any other kind of relationship.  I know the difference."

"I think a little distance makes it easier," Grissom explained.

"A _little_ distance?  Geez, Grissom, we might as well be working on different planets!  But even that would be tolerable if you were decent on those rare occasions when you actually deign to speak to me!  You treat me worse than you treat Greg, and he doesn't deserve it either."

"Greg lives to annoy me," Grissom groaned.

"What does that say about me?" Sara asked sharply.

Grissom struggled to find a better answer than, 'You live to torment me.'  He didn't think she would appreciate the subtle nuances of the statement.

"I don't want to argue about this now," Grissom said dismissively.  

"I guess I should feel grateful that you bothered to discuss it this much," Sara snorted acidly.

* * * * *

Catherine was waiting for Sara in the break room, her mind conjuring up scenarios for the discussion between Sara and Grissom.  She looked up sympathetically when Sara dragged in.  "So, did you get fitted for a new asshole?" 

"Not about the case," Sara answered, looking in the refrigerator for nothing in particular, to hide the emotions on her face.

"About what, then?" Catherine probed.

"My being an 'Ice Queen'."

"No, he didn't!" Catherine squealed.

"Yes, he did," Sara said, nodding, finally abandoning her futile search of the fridge.

"Well, he's got a lot of nerve!"

"Yeah, and he's not afraid to use it," Sara snorted.

"Sara, don't get me wrong.  Grissom has been my best friend for many years, and I love him to death.  He's been good to me, when I needed it most.  But this ... this ... this is so wrong!  Honest to God, I don't know what you see in him."

Sara shook her head and looked blankly out the glass that served as a wall between the hall and the break room.  "I used to know.  But I don't anymore."

* * * * *

Nick burst into Grissom's office without knocking, startling Grissom into an open-mouthed stare.  Nick was a little out of breath and leaned over putting his hands on Grissom's desk to steady himself.

"Nick!  What's wrong?" Grissom demanded.

"It's ... Greg ... needs you ... locker room," Nick said, turning and running back down the hall.  Grissom jumped up and moved around the desk as fast as he could, clipping his thigh on the sharp corner.  The first few steps were limping, but he soon was able to lope down the hall towards the lockers.

He slammed through the door and saw Greg hunched over in a corner, arms across his chest and hands tucked under his armpits.  He was wide-eyed and hyperventilating, gasping with each breath.  Nick was squatting down in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to calm him down.

Grissom slowly approached Greg, feeling certain as to the nature and cause of the problem, but unsure as to what he could do about it.  He called to Nick, who turned uncertainly, not wanting to leave his friend.  He repeated his request, and Nick haltingly rose and walked over the Grissom, turning every few steps to look back at Greg.

"Nick," Grissom said quietly.  "I want you to go find Sara and bring her here right away," Grissom instructed.  

"Sara?" Nick asked in confusion.

"Yes, Sara.  Now go.  I'll stay with Greg," Grissom assured him.

Nick looked back one final time and took off down the hall again, on his quest for Sara Sidle.  He didn't know why he was looking for her, other than Grissom said to.  Since he didn't know what else to do, any action seemed better than none.

Grissom went to his locker and withdrew a paper bag that contained some fruit he had brought for lunch.  He took the fruit out and walked over to Greg, handing him the paper bag.  

"Greg," Grissom said gently, "You're hyperventilating, which is making you feel even worse."  

Greg nodded his understanding.

"I want you to put the sack over your mouth and nose.  I'll tell you when you can take it off, okay?"

Greg nodded again, burying himself in the bag, his wheezing muffled.

"Don't try to talk right now, but just nod," Grissom instructed.  "Is this an anxiety attack ... from the accident?"

Greg nodded and shrugged at the same time, indicating his uncertain belief that it was.

"Okay.  After you get your breathing under control, you'll feel better.  Do you want to move to the bench?" Grissom offered.

Greg shook his head 'no' vehemently.

"Does the corner feel safer?" Grissom asked, a surprising amount of compassion in his voice.

Greg nodded, staring pleadingly at Grissom.

"Okay.  You're shivering from the adrenaline and the cold tile.  I'm going to get a jacket to put over you.  I'll be right back," Grissom assured him.  He walked to his locker and withdrew his leather coat, bringing it back to drape across Greg's shoulders.

Greg offered a weak smile that was covered by the sack, but showed slightly around his eyes.  His breathing was beginning to slow down, and the air in the bag felt damp and heavy.  He looked up at Grissom for permission to remove the bag.

"In just a few more seconds, Greg," Grissom answered, anticipating his question.  "You need the carbon dioxide to slow your breathing and pulse.  Grissom reached up and placed his middle two fingers across Greg's wrist, and watched the second hand on his watch make a complete arc.

"One hundred twenty," Grissom told him.  "That would be great if you were doing aerobics," Grissom teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Sara and Nick exploded into the room, making Greg jump.  He recovered when he saw her, dropping the bag and shouting, "Sara!"

Nick stood helpless at the door as Sara leapt over the bench and raced over to Greg.  She took both of his hands in hers and smiled.  "Will you guys excuse us?" she asked, turning to look at Grissom, then Nick.  

"Come on, Nick," Grissom said, herding him out the door.

"What's wrong with him?" Nick asked in panicked confusion as soon as the door had closed.

"It's not as bad as it looks, Nicky," Grissom assured him.  "He's having an anxiety attack.  His fight-or-flight response has kicked in, with nothing to fight, so he took flight."

"But why?" Nick asked.

"The explosion.  Can you imagine how frightening it must have been?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah, but it's been months since it happened," Nick said.

"How long did it take you to get over having a gun pointed at you, Nick?" Grissom asked.  "How would you feel if you _had_ been shot, and every day had to have a gun put in your face again?"

"I see what you're saying.  It's because he has to keep going back to the place that hurt him," Nick nodded.

"The pain is only part of it.  The biggest part is the fear," Grissom explained.

"Why did you want me to get Sara?" Nick asked.

"She was there, too.  She knows to some degree what he's going through.  He trusts her to be able to understand," Grissom told him, guiding him down to the break room door, but not entering.  "You need to decompress a little yourself.  Why don't you go play one of your video games?" Grissom asked, to Nick's total shock.

Leaving Nick to calm himself, Grissom made his way back to the locker room.  He stood at the door to keep anyone else from entering, observing through the small glass pane.

He watched as Sara sat down in front of Greg, still holding his hands.  Greg was talking to her animatedly, with her nodding.  Greg looked down, tears welling in his eyes.  Sara reached a hand out to lay on his cheek, this time him listening and her talking.  Grissom couldn't hear her words through the door, but it was obvious that Greg was listening intently.

After a moment, she pushed up onto her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.  He got to his knees as well and wrapped his own arms around her.  She rocked him a moment before leaning her head back to talk to him again.

Grissom could see Greg nod and begin wiping the tears off of his face.  She stood and held out her hands to him.  He took them hesitantly, then pulled himself up.  She yanked him into another hug and led him to the lavatory to wash his face.  As he stood there, she kept a hand on his back, the security of her touch apparently giving him strength.  

Greg turned around and looked at Sara appreciatively, if a little embarrassed.  She stroked his face again and nodded, bringing a nod from him in return.  She took his hand and led him towards the door.

Grissom moved back out of their way.  Greg looked at Grissom sheepishly.  "Not the best career move, huh?" Greg asked.

Grissom smiled empathetically and put a hand on Greg's shoulder.  "Are you okay now?  Do you want to take the rest of the night off?  I can have Hodges cover," Grissom offered.

"No, Greg and I are going to the lab to finish his shift," Sara answered confidently, handing Grissom his jacket.

"Okay, if that's what you want, Greg.  Sara, Catherine and I will follow up on the Spencer case," Grissom said.

"Sounds good.  We'll be in the lab if you need us," she said, putting her hand on Greg's arm to walk with him.  After a few steps, she turned to Grissom and said, "Be nice, Grissom.  Show her some respect, even if you disagree."

Grissom didn't answer, and hung back to watch them amble slowly down the hall, Sara periodically leaning in towards Greg, encouraging him to take another step.  As they got to the near corner of the glass wall, they stopped and Grissom became concerned that Sara might be pushing him too fast.

He watched her lean in close to Greg's face, talking softly to him.  Greg took a deep breath and straightened himself, his head bobbing his willingness to continue.  They made it to the door before he halted again, this time shaking his head 'no' and holding up his hands in surrender.

Sara put a hand on each side of his face to stop his gesture.  Grissom could see her face become resolute.  He could barely read her lips, but she kept repeating the same thing, allowing him to catch it all:  'You can do this!  You can do this!'

After a moment, he relaxed and she was able to guide him inside the door.  This time she stopped them, allowing him a moment to acclimate and gather himself.  Grissom moved to the outer edge of the glass wall in the hall, entranced by what he was watching.  

He thought of how so many human interactions are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, as Shakespeare said.  But this one was soundless, from his vantage, and signified everything.

He always knew Sara was empathetic – maybe too much so.  He feared that she would allow her feelings to overwhelm her, burning her out.  He had seen it happen to many criminalists in his thirty years in the field.  He had warned her, talked with her, argued with her about it.  Still, she could not or would not change.  Nor was he completely convinced he really wanted her to – after all, that was part of what made her Sara.

He looked on as Sara walked Greg to each station in the lab, checking to ensure that everything was as it should be:  no active heat sources, volatiles locked away or under the fume hood, cross-reacting reagents properly separated and so on, until they returned to their starting point.

She flipped through his CDs and picked out something upbeat, but not too raucous, putting it on at a moderate volume, the sound barely audible with the doors closed.

She sat next to him, listening, as he began to extract a DNA sample for Short Tandem Repeat replication.  Greg was apparently explaining the process to her, which seemed to help him focus and relax.  

After a moment, Grissom felt confident that the situation was well under control and started down the hall to find Catherine.  He caught Sara's eye along the way, smiling warmly and nodding appreciatively to her.  She held his gaze for a moment, then returned her attention to Greg's tutelage.

Making his way through the maze of hallways, Grissom replayed the episode in his mind.  He was not at all surprised that Greg had a panic attack – he was only surprised that he had not had one before.  He decided to talk to him about getting counseling, before the pressure built up too high for even Sara to be able to relieve.  Despite the things he said, and therefore what other people believed, he didn't dislike Greg, and he certainly didn't want him to suffer.

His thoughts wandered to how Sara was coping with the after-effects of the blast.  He had been in denial that she had been affected, other than the cut on her hand.  He hadn't even insisted on medical leave to allow her to work through the emotional damage the accident had no doubt caused.  After he found her dazed and injured on the curb, he put all thoughts of her involvement out of his mind.  They frightened him to the core.  He suddenly couldn't deny how involved his feelings for Sara were, whether he admitted them or not.  

She returned after getting her hand stitched up, a little less dazed, but still not all there.  To Grissom it seemed like she was about a half-step behind.  But she seemed capable of returning to work, or at least Grissom told himself that.  

Immediately after the accident, he had been forced to face his feelings for her in a blink of an eye.  Then he had been forced to think about what it would feel like to lose her.  If he felt this invested now, what would it be like if they actually had a relationship?  It was too dangerous.  He instinctively wanted distance.  

But seeing her helping Greg tonight moved Grissom.  He couldn't deny it.  He realized that he had witnessed the healing power of love.  

If she had this much love to give to a friend, how much more would she give to a lover?  He found himself longing to know the answer.

He knew he could hurt her – he'd proven it time and again, but he wondered if he had it in him to be good for her.  He felt like he had more than enough love for her in his heart, but he wasn't sure how to get it out where she could see how much he cherished her.

He wondered if she could heal him.  He felt certain she could destroy him.  The weight of his dilemma pressed down on him.  

* * * * *

"What's going on, Grissom?"  Catherine demanded as soon as he entered the break room.  "Nicky said Greg's having an anxiety attack."  Seeing Grissom look around the otherwise empty room, she added, "Nick went back to work."  

"Greg _was_ having an anxiety attack, but he's better now.  Sara's helping him," Grissom answered tiredly, the unrelenting drama of the shift beginning to wear thin.  

"Where are they?" Catherine asked.

"She's going to stay with him tonight in his lab," Grissom answered.  "And she doesn't need any help," he added, knowing that her maternal instincts would no doubt make her feel she had to check on him.

"Maybe not with Greg ..." Catherine snorted.

"Look, Catherine, I'm too tired for this conversation right now.  Let's just get back to work.  Get the files Sara brought out of my office and let's go through them page by page.  I'll call Brass and have him bring in Janice Spencer for questioning.  With any luck, we'll be able to piece enough probable cause together to get a warrant to search her house."

"Have you changed your mind?" she asked, a bit suspiciously.

"I'm just doing my job, and it sometimes puts me in a difficult position.  I may feel one way, but I have to act another."

"I can think of someone who needs to hear those words a lot more than I do."

"They would be cold comfort," he sighed.

"Better than no comfort at all."

"Catherine, it would be cruel to string her along.  She needs to get over it and move on."

"Funny, that's the same thing I told her."

Grissom looked at Catherine sharply.

"What did you tell her?  And why were you even talking about me to her?" he asked heatedly.

"I told her that I don't get what she sees in you," Catherine answered truthfully.

"I would prefer for you to refrain from discussing my personal life with other people," he said acidly.

"I was discussing Sara's personal life with Sara.  I can't help it that she has such poor taste in men."

"When did you stop being _my friend?" Grissom asked._

"You don't have friends, Grissom.  You have co-workers.  You have acquaintances.  Friends require an emotional commitment that's beyond your reach."

Catherine's words stung him.  They had been at odds a few times before, but it had never gotten to the point where he felt he had to make a choice between maintaining a friendship and maintaining his integrity on the job.

"So you are going to let a disagreement over a case destroy a decade of friendship?" he asked incredulously.

"You don't get it, but I'm not surprised.  It's not the case.  It's never the case.  It wasn't the case with Sara back when she wanted the leave-of-absence.  It's about respect and support.  You'd rather be right than be a friend."

"That's not true, Catherine.  I wish I could support you, but I can't.  My hands are tied.  I wish there were evidence supporting your theory – anything at all – but there's not.  I have a job to do, and if you were any kind of friend at all, you'd support _me_.  You always expect me to be there for you, but when it's my ass that's on the line, where are you?" Grissom exploded, surprising them both.

"John Spencer's life is more important than covering your ass," Catherine shouted vehemently, her eyes shining with anger and her face flushed.

"You act like I have a choice here," Grissom murmured, shaking his head.  "Like I'm getting some perverse pleasure out of destroying what you presume to be an innocent man."

"You are sacrificing everything and everyone for a nameless, faceless job.  One day you're not going to have this job anymore.  You've got to retire someday.  Will the job keep you company?  Will it call you to see how you're doing?  Will it kiss you goodnight?  There are people who have come into your life who have been willing to care about you, but you consistently chose the job over them."  

"The job doesn't demand that I change to suit its whims or tastes.  The job doesn't constantly remind me that I'm inadequate.  The job doesn't take every opportunity to embarrass or humiliate me."

"Then I hope you and your job will be happy together," Catherine spat out, escaping the break room before she lost all control over her temper.  She had already said some things that she wasn't proud of, but they weren't nearly as cutting as the things she held back.  She was angry with him, to be sure – but out of respect for the past, she didn't want to take it any further.  

Grissom sat in the darkened break room, feeling very old, very tired, and very alone.  He had no one to go home to, no one who would cheer him up with a smile.  It now seemed likely to him that he wouldn't even have a friend anymore.  He had always thought that Catherine accepted him as he was, even if she kept trying to change him.  The changes she sought, she said were to help him with others.  Apparently, he not only failed to make himself acceptable to others, but somehow lost the ability to be accepted by Catherine as well.

Fortunately, the job was still there, accepting him, happily devouring all the time and attention he wanted to lavish on it.  'Is it any wonder I choose the job over people?  The people come and go.  The job lets me be me, and the job is always there.'

Grissom considered the people who had come into his life over the past decade.  Now that Catherine had made it clear that she could no longer tolerate his deficiencies, Grissom realized that there was only one person who could even come close to understanding him – the one person he had fought the hardest to keep at arm's length.  

Expelling a long breath before standing, Grissom quietly let out words to vacant space that he was unable to say to her face:  "I need you, Sara." 

* * * * *

It had been an emotional night, and Sara was glad to be clocking out.  She was looking forward to a long, hot soak in the tub and a nap.  She tiredly pulled her purse from the locker and clanged it shut, the noise reverberating through the locker room.

"Long night," Grissom said as he entered.

"Yeah."

"Listen, Sara, thanks for taking care of Greg."

"It was no big deal.  He'll get over it in time," she said confidently.

Grissom walked up to Sara, then looked around to see if anyone else was in the room before continuing.  

"Have you gotten over it?" he asked gently.

Sara paled slightly and sucked in a breath before composing herself.  "I didn't get blown through a glass wall.  I'm fine," she said with a touch of bravado.  

"It still had to be frightening.  If nothing else, seeing Greg lying there," he pressed.

"It was scary at the time, but it was a while ago," she said quickly.  "I'm fine."

"You keep telling me that," Grissom said, smiling.  "Is it true?  Really?"

"I'm fine, Grissom," she answered.  "But I'm tired, and I want to go home.  So, if you'll excuse me ..."

"Are you hungry?" Grissom asked, smiling.

"Are you conducting a survey?" she smirked.

"Yes, but the survey population is very limited.  Just one," he retorted.

"Okay.  For the purposes of your research, I am a little hungry.  I haven't eaten in, oh, eleven hours or so," she answered, looking at her watch.

"Would you like to go to breakfast?" he asked hopefully, but trying to sound casual, expecting her to demur.

Sara looked at him a bit suspiciously.  While her lips formed into a friendly enough smile, her brows were gathered as if in a frown.  The mixed message wasn't lost on Grissom.

"If you'd rather not, it's okay," he said, shrugging and turning to escape to his own locker.

"Who all is going?"

"I hadn't planned on asking anyone else," he answered.

Sara was confused, and briefly tempted.  But she began to shake her head, slowly at first, then more vehemently.  "No.  I don't think so.  But thanks," she said, her voice wavering a bit.

Grissom tried not to let his disappointment show.  He smiled gamely as he told her, "Okay, then, have a good rest.  See you tonight."

Sara nodded her agreement, not trusting her voice.  She bolted out of the room, wanting to put distance between them before she changed her mind.  'I can't let him do this to me again,' she repeated to herself, over and over, on the way to her car.

She fumbled with the keys, seemingly unable to unlock her door.  Stopping to compose herself, she huffed a dragon breath, and laid her arms on the roof of the car, then her head in her arms.  'I'm not going to fall for this again.  I just can't,' she told herself, rocking her head back and forth across her forearms.

"Are you okay, Sara?" suddenly came a voice, startling her.  She jumped and spun around.

"I'm fine, Grissom," she said, hurriedly trying to unlock her car again.

"Here, let me help you with that," Grissom said, reaching to take the keys from her hand.  His fingers barely slid across hers as he grasped the keys, but the contact seemed to jolt her into a mind-numbed paralysis.

"There.  All done," Grissom said, holding the keys out to her.  "Sara, are you sure you're all right?"

Sara snapped back to reality suddenly, willing herself to be stronger than she felt.  "I'm really getting tired of you asking me that, Grissom," she said tersely.

"I'm sorry, but your words say one thing and your body language says another," Grissom said.

A low, rumbling chuckle started deep within Sara, gradually building to gasping laughter.  Tears began to well up in her eyes, and she swiped at them as she tried to compose herself, but then decided to give herself over to the humor of his statement.

"What's so funny?" Grissom asked, smiling but confused.

"Nothing, Grissom," she barely squeaked out, still rocking from her laughter.

"What?  Tell me," he pressed.

"If you don't get what's funny about what you said ... well, actually, it's not _what_ you said, but that _you_ of all people would say it."  Her face was still flushed and she had to sniff a few times, but she was starting to calm down.

Grissom replayed his words over in his mind, unable to see anything humorous.  It was after he had said it to himself several times that he finally understood why she was laughing.  He looked down, embarrassed.  To him, it wasn't the slightest bit funny.  The fact that his own body language betrayed his words wasn't amusing to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, shrugging helplessly.  "I don't do it purposefully."  Grissom took a deep breath, willing himself to take a chance.  He decided that an attempt at honesty was the only way to attempt to reach Sara now.  "I'm ... uh ... conflicted."

"You've told me that before, remember?  'I don't know what to do about this,' were your exact words, I believe," Sara rejoined, coolly.

"I still don't know, but I'd like to," Grissom said quietly, looking up at her face.  "I need to."

Sara considered him, her heart and her mind warring.  She recognized that this was a momentous step forward for him.  It's one thing to know that you are conflicted;  it's another thing entirely to want to have the answer.  Her heart was shouting for joy, and urging her to rejoin the pursuit of her desires.

But Sara's mind was wary of his one-step-forward, two-steps-back history.  'Yes,' she told herself, 'this is definitely a step forward.  How long until the two steps back?  Will I be able to deal with them?  Do I even want to?'

"Sara?" Grissom said, watching a plethora of emotions pass one after another across her face.

"Sorry.  I was just thinking," she said.

"What were you thinking?" Grissom asked, hesitantly.

"That I'm ... uh ... conflicted," she said.

Grissom smiled empathetically, stepping a bit closer to close the gap between them.  "I thought you knew what to do," he said, just above a whisper.

"I do.  I'm just not sure I want to do it anymore," she answered honestly.

Sara could see that her words pierced him to the core, as surely as if she had stabbed him.   He took a step back, involuntarily retreating from her, struggling to quickly rebuild the walls he had been trying to tear down.  Within an hour's time, he had been rejected by the two people he cared the most about, and his isolation began to become oppressively real to him.

"No, Grissom.  I'm sorry.  I didn't say that I definitely don't want to.  I'm just not sure about it all anymore," she said quickly, taking a step closer to him as he continued to step back.

"It's okay.  I understand," he said, voice breaking.  "It's not like you didn't warn me.  I ... I ... uh ... deserve it," he said, turning quickly to retreat to the sanctuary of the lab.

"Shit!" Sara exclaimed, and pounded a fist on the roof of her car.  She whirled around to watch him walk as fast as his legs could carry him back to the building, head down, hands in his pockets.  'I've got to learn the difference between inner monologue and speaking aloud,' she chided herself.  She hadn't meant to hurt him, whether she felt he deserved it or not.

Sara slumped back against her car door, crossing her arms at her chest, considering what she should do to salve the pain her words caused.  'Should I let him think a little about how he's done the same thing to me about a billion times?  Should I wait to say anything?  Should I ignore the whole thing?  Should I follow him and talk to him until he feels better about it?'  

Knowing how she would have felt if just once Grissom had followed her after any of the times she's walked off hurt, she resolved to give him that much respect.  She pushed herself off her car and strode resolutely into the lab.  If nothing else, she was determined to show him that it matters if you hurt someone, however unintentionally.

* * * * *

Sara could see into his office from down the hall.  The door was open and Grissom was seated behind his desk, leaned back slightly in his chair.  He was turned sideways to his desk, looking blankly into space, and absently tapping a pencil on the top of a file.

She stood silently at his door, considering what she should say.  She leaned up against the door frame, as was her habit, automatically crossing her arms.

Realization that he was being watched slowly dawned on Grissom, and he turned his head to see who was at the door.  Seeing it was Sara, he turned back around, unsure what how he was supposed to react.

"May I come in?" she asked politely.

Grissom shrugged.  "Sure."

Sara walked in, then thought to close the door behind her.  Instead of sitting in the chair across the desk from Grissom, she walked around the desk to stand in front of him.

"Grissom, I'd like to apologize and explain what I meant," she began.

"I understand what you meant," he said heavily.

"Haven't you ever said something that came out all wrong?  Something you wish that you could explain, or better yet, take back?" she asked.

Grissom snorted, "Constantly."

"Let me take it back," she said, smiling.  "Or at least let me explain."

"Sara, you don't have to explain.  I understand.  Really."

"You can't possibly understand, because I didn't say all that I meant.  I only said part of it."  Sara pulled a chair around so that they could see eye-to-eye while she explained.  

"It's not the moving forward that I'm unsure about.  It's the inevitable falling back.  I'm just not sure how much more of that I can take."

"Sara, I don't know what to say.  Sometimes, I get overwhelmed, and I have to pull back and regroup.  I don't mean it to come across as a rejection."

"Do you trust me, Grissom?" she asked plainly.

"You wouldn't be working here if I didn't trust you," he answered.

"I know you trust me professionally.  Do you trust me personally?" she pressed.

"I ... I don't know.  I want to.  I think I do."

"I guess I'll just have to earn that trust," she said resolutely.  

"Do you trust _me_?" Grissom countered.

"I wouldn't be working here if I didn't trust you," she answered, smiling.

"I know you trust me professionally.  Do you trust me personally?" he parroted.

"Absofuckinglutely not," she answered, the smile never leaving her face.

Grissom winced.  "I guess I'll have to work even harder to earn that trust."

"Start by being honest with yourself.  How can I trust you if you don't even trust yourself?"

Grissom pursed his lips and squinted in thought.  He knew that she was right.  He spent as much time and energy trying to fool himself as he did trying to fool her.

Grissom's beeper broke the silence.  Looking down, he told Sara, "Brass has brought in Janice Spencer for questioning.  Shall we?" Grissom asked, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

"You had her brought in?" Sara asked, smiling.

"Of course.  I trust you," he answered.

* * * * *

"Ms. Spencer," Brass began, but she cut him off immediately.

"I ain't Mrs. Spencer no more.  My name is Janice Jones."

"All right," Brass said, nodding.  "Ms. Jones, where were you last Tuesday night?"

"What time?" she asked.

"Between nine at night and two in the morning," Brass clarified.

"I got home about midnight.  I was out until then."

"Out where?"

"Different places," she said, shrugging indifferently.

"You'll need to be a little more specific."

"What's this about?" she asked.  "Am I under arrest?  Don't I get a lawyer or something?"

"You are not under arrest, Ms. Jones.  But you may have your lawyer present, if you wish."

"I ain't got a lawyer.  Don't you got to give me one?"

"Not for questioning.  If you are arrested, we will provide a lawyer at no cost, if you can't afford one."

"What is it you think I did?" she asked suspiciously.

"We are investigating the homicide of your daughter, Melanie," Brass answered.

"Well, don't look at me.  I don't have nothin' to do with them anymore.  Not since Mr. Too Big For His Britches got too good for me."

In the observation room connected by a two-way mirror, Sara looked incredulously at Grissom.  

"She didn't even react to hearing about the murder.  You'd think she'd have some sort of feelings about the death of her daughter."

"Well, Spencer did say that she was never attached to the child," Grissom said.

"Fine.  You listen to her talk, then you listen to Spencer talk.  Tell me then who loved Melanie, and who killed her," Sara said, turning away from him.

In the interrogation room, Brass continued, "Ms. Jones, you need to tell me where you were between nine and two, so that we can corroborate your story.  It's the only way we can clear you as a suspect."

"You ain't got nothin' on me!" she spat.  "If you did, you'd've arrested me by now.  You're bluffin'," she said, smirking.

"I take it that you have no alibi for your whereabouts, then," Brass said.

"I don't have to tell you shit, mister," she said, rising.  

"You seem to know a lot about the legal process," Brass said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

"Well, this ain't my first rodeo.  I been around.  And I know that you have to let me go, or arrest me.  Ain't that so?"

"That's so," Brass nodded.

Janice Jones smirked back over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the room.  Brass turned toward the mirror and raised his eyebrows and his hands, miming 'Now what?'.

"Oh, yeah.  She did it.  And I'm going to prove it," Sara growled, heading for the door.

"Evidence, Sara.  I need evidence," Grissom reminded her.

"I know how to do my job," she growled.

Grissom caught her by the arm, then let go when she shot a glare first at his hand, then at his face.

"I know that you know how to do your job.  I'm reminding you what my job is.  I can't turn in all the evidence to the District Attorney, but tell him to ignore it because we don't happen to agree with it."

"We?  Did you say 'we'?" Sara asked.

"Sara, as I told Catherine and you earlier, it doesn't matter what I believe.  It only matters what the DA and the jury believes."

"And as Catherine told you, it most certainly matters to us."

Brass entered the room and looked at Gil and Sara expectantly.  "So, is there any evidence at all to nail this soulless bitch?"

Sara smirked, and turned to Grissom.  "At least Brass is on our side."

"There are no sides here, Sara," Grissom admonished.  "And, no, Jim.  There is no physical evidence at this point.  If you can find a way to get us a warrant for her house, maybe we can find some."

"And what would you suggest I use for probable cause?" he asked.

"The history of abuse.  The letters.  Her lack of an alibi."  Sara ticked off what little they had.

"I think we'll have to shop for a sympathetic judge," Brass said uncertainly.  "Either of you in tight with anybody?" Brass asked.

Seeing them look at him blankly, he answered himself, "What was I thinking?  Well, I'll see what I can do.  In the meantime, try to get me something ... anything ... that I can show to a judge without flinching."

* * * * *

"I left my stuff in your office," Sara explained, as she accompanied Grissom back down the corridor.

"It's almost ten in the morning," Grissom sighed.  "It's been a very long day."

"Yes, it has," Sara agreed, moving around the desk to gather up her purse and her kit.  

"Still hungry?" Grissom asked.

"More research?" Sara answered, smiling.

"Yes.  I'm studying just how hungry you have to get to have breakfast with me," Grissom said with a serious voice.  "By my calculations, it's now been a minimum of fourteen hours since you've eaten."

"I think I reached that level of hunger about an hour ago," she said.  "We can eat.  We can talk.  But we can't have fun.  As long as we don't enjoy ourselves, it's safe."

"Okay," Grissom agreed.  "No fun.  I can handle that."

"I never doubted it," Sara snorted, leading the way out.

* * * * *

"We better leave soon, Grissom," Sara said, pushing back her plate.  "I'm starting to enjoy myself, and we had an agreement," she said, smiling up at him.

"Well, we can't have that," he said, putting the tip on the table and rising.  "Better nip this in the bud before it blossoms into full-fledged fun."

"Are you tired?  I was going to go for a drive, and you're welcome to come along," Grissom said as they got in his car.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Nowhere in particular.  Just a drive.  You don't have to enjoy it, if you don't want to," he added.

"Okay, as long as it's not someplace fun, it'll be safe," she agreed.

* * * * *

The hot, dry wind whipped Sara's hair back across her face.  She'd given up trying to keep it back.  Even with sunglasses on, the harsh brightness of the Nevada sun made her scowl, though she was not in a bad mood.  She leaned back against the grill of Grissom's car, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed at the chest.  She peered out at the seemingly endless miles of sand, a few hills punctuating the horizon.

"So different from home ..." she said quietly to herself.

"Do you miss California?" Grissom asked, settling in beside her, his arm touching hers casually, but not without intimacy.

"Sometimes.  This place sometimes seems so empty ... so ... lonely."

"Las Vegas?  It's teeming with people," Grissom argued.

"I'm not talking about the city.  To me, the city is fake – an artificial construct.  Even without the bright lights, the gambling, the shows, and everything else, it would still be fake.  A lot of these people move out to a spot in the desert, then spend a fortune on landscaping and the like, to convince themselves that it's not a desert."

"Maybe the desert scares them.  It's different.  They want to make it something they can relate to."

"They should accept it for what it is, even though it does often seem uninviting and barren," she added.

"No, it's not barren.  It's full of life.  Just because it's not all out in the open all the time, doesn't mean it's not there."

"It might as well not be.  If I can't see it, if I can't experience it, then it doesn't really matter if it's there or not."

"You have to look for it," Grissom said, encouragingly.

"I _have_ looked for it.  It hides from me, doesn't want me to find it.  Even when I do get a glimpse of it, it runs away."

"You frighten it.  You could be dangerous," he suggested.

"I'm not going to hurt it.  I would never hurt it," she countered defensively.

"It can't be sure."

"How can I convince it?" she asked, a frustrated frown pinching her face.

"You have to be non-threatening.  No sudden moves.  Just be patient, and let it become accustomed to you.  I'm sure it's as curious about you as you are about it."

"I've been patient.  It forgets it's dangerous, too.  Yet I've exposed myself to it – its harshness, its punishments.  I've shown I'm willing to sacrifice to see it ... to be with it."

"Yes, you've proven you can tolerate it better than most ... but could you love it?  Until you can say that, it will always be unknowable."

"I love what I know about it," she answered.

"Ah, but there's a difference between 'knowing about' and 'knowing', isn't there?" he asked philosophically.

"How can I truly 'know' it, if it stays hidden?" she asked.

"A conundrum, to be sure," he answered, nodding.  "One that most people don't have the patience to solve."

"I'll be patient.  But I've got to know if I'm looking in the right place," she said hopefully.

"Look!" Grissom said in an excited whisper, as a desert vole came out of its hole a few feet in front of them.  It bounded a few feet, then stood looking at the two humans for a moment, before scurrying into a pile of craggy rocks.

"I told you it was there, and that it was just as curious about you."

"But it ran away again," she demurred.

"But it'll be back.  It always comes back."

"It's so exciting when it appears and so disappointing when it leaves," she sighed.

"You could capture it.  Then you'd have it around whenever you wanted it."

"I would never do that.  I want it to be with me because it chooses to be, not because it has to be.  And I would never take away its freedom, or take it from the place where it feels safe."  

"You think it's too cautious?" Grissom asked.

"Maybe.  Just a little.  But did you see how cute it was?  Makes me want to hold it, stroke its soft fur, cuddle it."

"After that, would you be willing to let it go back to its hiding place?" Grissom asked.

"If that's what it wanted.  Maybe it would stay longer next time, if it knew I wasn't going to do anything to hurt it."

"Maybe," Grissom agreed.  

Sara looked over at Grissom and smiled, then looked back out into open expanse ahead of her.

"I'm getting better at talking in metaphors like you, aren't I?" Sara asked, chuckling.

"Oh.  Was that a metaphor?" Grissom asked innocently.

Sara jabbed at his ribs with an elbow.  "Smart ass.  I was trying to be 'non-threatening'."

"Tell that to my ribs," he laughed.

Grissom gently pulled her arm free from the other, and slid his hand into hers.  

They stood in comfortable silence for some time, no words seeming more important at the moment than the simple connection of their hands.

"We better go," Grissom said, releasing her hand to dig in his pocket for the keys to the car.

"Already?" she asked, a little forlornly.

"It's getting late, and we've got to rest before work tonight.  Maybe we can do it again sometime," he offered.

"Soon?"

"Maybe."

"Longer next time?" she asked hopefully.

Grissom smiled.  "Maybe."

* * * * *

Catherine drove, with Grissom in the passenger's seat and Sara perched between them, her butt planted precariously on the edge of the back seat, with an arm on each front seat, leaning in between them.

Looking at Catherine, Sara chuckled and said, "You know, normally it's kind of inconvenient working graveyard.  People are asleep, too late to call anyone, places are closed ... you know.  But I have to admit that I get a perverse pleasure out of being there when a search warrant is served in the middle of the night."

Grissom gave a half-grin and shook his head, and Catherine joined in, telling her, "You have an evil streak, Sara Sidle.  I like that."

"Ladies, your inordinate pleasure at disrupting the sleep of innocent citizens is disconcerting."

"Hey, if it wasn't for people like them, we wouldn't have to be awake working all night," Sara said mock-defensively.

"They are innocent until proven guilty by a court of law," Grissom reminded her.  

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I know.  But I'm going to enjoy it anyway," she said, smiling.  "If for no other reason than because she's a bitch."

"If they ever make being a bitch probable cause, I'm in trouble," Catherine huffed.

"You and me both," Sara agreed.

Both Sara and Catherine looked over at Gil to gauge his reaction.  Once he realized that they were looking at him, his eyes briefly met each of theirs before shooting straight ahead again, his brow furrowing.  "Am I supposed to say something here?"

Sara sat back in her seat, shaking her head at his befuddlement.  Catherine looked across at him, and said a little condescendingly, "Yes.  This is where you disagree with us and say something nice."

"Oh.  It seemed safer to say nothing at all."

"Well, you're wrong," Catherine said flatly.

"What a surprise," Sara mumbled in the back seat.

"Is it too late to say something nice?" Grissom asked hopefully.

"Well, the moment's passed, but it's never too late," Catherine answered.

"That's not what I hear," Grissom mumbled.

"What?" Catherine asked.

Grissom declined to repeat himself.  "I wouldn't classify either of you as a 'bitch'.  I like you just the way you are," Grissom said loudly enough for both women to hear, hoping it was enough, since it was all he could think of on the spur of the moment.

Catherine looked into the rear-view mirror at Sara, and they smiled to each other.  Coming from Grissom, that was high praise.

* * * * * 

"I fucking don't believe it, Cath," Sara spat out as they carried their equipment back to the SUV.  "That trailer is spotless.  She knew we would be coming.  It's probably the first time it's ever been cleaned, but by God she sanitized it."

Grissom followed discreetly behind the women, knowing that they would need some time and space to cool off.  Above all else, he didn't want to appear to gloat.  He was never more disappointed to be right.  There was absolutely no physical evidence to tie Janice Jones to the murder of Melanie Spencer.

There wasn't even any physical evidence that she lived in that trailer, were it not her legal address.  It was obvious that she had taken great pains to prepare for the inevitable search.

"You best stop harassing me!" Jones shouted at the retreating figures.  "I got rights, too.  You can't keep fucking with me just because you think you're better than I am!" she shrieked.

"Charming woman," Brass muttered to Grissom.  "Whaddya think, Gil?"

"I think she's likely to get away with murder," Grissom said quietly.

"I can't do anything without evidence," Brass said defensively.

"I know.  That's what I keep telling them," Grissom said, nodding towards the two female CSIs.

"Sucks about the dad, though," Brass added.  "He's probably going to go down for this.  She got what she wanted."

"A good lawyer might be able to build enough reasonable doubt in the jurors' minds."

"He's got a public defender," Brass said heavily.  "And a green one, to boot.  He doesn't stand a chance.  Think we can convince the DA to not file?" 

"You can try.  We can write it up in such a way as to sound ... equivocal."

"Tampering with evidence?" Brass exclaimed incredulously, never imagining that he would hear Grissom suggest such a thing.

"No, of course not!  The evidence is the evidence.  I just think we could interject our doubts into the analysis.  Not make it sound so cut-and-dried.  Suggest alternative possibilities for the evidence."

"We could find ourselves in hot water with the DA," Brass warned.

"A man's life could be at stake," Grissom countered.

"I'm going to arrange for a polygraph.  If I'm going to get my butt in a sling for this guy, I want to know that he's innocent."

"Let me know as soon as you get the results."  Grissom looked over at the two furies standing by the SUV.  He yelled over to them, "I'm going to ride in with Jim.  See you back at the lab."

"Chicken?" Brass asked as he plopped down into the driver's seat.

"The drive here was bad enough, and they were in a good mood.  I would never survive the drive back," Grissom answered, as he entered the sanctuary of Brass's car.

* * * * *

Grissom heard over Brass's police radio that Willows and Sidle were code 482 for lunch.  Grissom expelled a long breath, and said, "Thank God.  At least I'll get back to a little peace and quiet before they get in.  Maybe they will have calmed down."

"Dream on, buddy," Brass said with a laugh.  "I don't envy you.  When I was boss there, the only one I had to deal with was Catherine, and I had you as a buffer.  If I had them both, I'd be dead by now – stroke, heart attack, suicide ..."

"... Murder," Grissom continued.  "Sara would eat you for breakfast," Grissom chuckled.

"That's a visual," Brass said evenly.

Gil shot Jim a disapproving glare.  

"Just joking!  Hey, lighten up!  You don't have to get all jealous."

"What are you talking about?  Why would I get jealous?" Grissom asked, too innocently.

"Whatever."

Grissom shifted uncomfortably in the car.  He resolved that he would drive himself to crime scenes to avoid being a captive audience anymore.  He wondered why everyone seemed to think that he wanted or needed their insights into his life.

* * * * *

"You okay?" Grissom asked Sara in the locker room, as they gathered their belongings at the end of shift.

"I'm fine."

"You want to take a walk around the block?  Get some air?" he asked gently.

"No." 

"Clear your head," he said, smiling.

"I'm fine," she demurred.

"Okay," he said, nodding.  As he reached up to cup her cheek, stroking her face with his thumb, she recognized the conversation and grinned.

"Somehow I doubt I have chalk on my face," she said.

"I was never fully convinced I had any on my face either," Grissom returned.

Sara shrugged, and smiled coyly.  Grissom let his hand fall, but held her in his gaze.

"So ... did I?  Have chalk on my face?" he asked.

"No," Sara answered honestly, turning to head for the door.

"Sara?  Do you want to go somewhere?  Maybe go get a bite, or some coffee?"

"I don't think I'd be very good company right now, Grissom.  But thanks for asking," she said, smiling.

"All the better.  We'd be guaranteed not to enjoy ourselves," he countered.

"Well, you've got a point there," she laughed.  "Can we go back to the desert?"

"Literally or figuratively?" Grissom asked.

Sara chuckled  "Either ... both.  Definitely figuratively.  Maybe literally, if you want to."

* * * * *

On the way out of town they stopped at a small restaurant for breakfast.  Sara picked at her bowl of fruit, while Grissom ate his fruit and some wheat toast.  Most of the time was spent in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable.  Sara appreciated that Grissom allowed her the time to decompress, without pushing her.  

Grissom drove her to the same spot where they had spent little more than an hour the day before.  Sara made her way around to the front of the car and leaned back against the hood, waiting for him to join her.  She was surprised that he immediately reached for her hand as soon as he settled in, hip to hip.

"Sara, I need to explain something," Grissom said, his eyes still focused on the horizon, though she turned to look at him.

"Okay."

"I can only imagine how embarrassing it must have been for you, during the Haviland trial, to have Marjorie Westcott bring up your personal life."

"You could say that," Sara agreed, turning back to look out at the desert.

"I know how embarrassed I was when she brought up my name in connection with the Renteria case, and I had the luxury of reading the transcript in the privacy of my office."

"I'm sorry, Grissom.  If I had known anyone else was around ..." she began, apologetically.

"That's just the point, Sara.  It seemed like we were alone.  It seemed perfectly safe.  But considering how much trouble just a small touch caused, can you imagine what it would have been like if we had been involved?"

"Is that why ..."

"One of the reasons.  Actually, a big reason.  Not only was I embarrassed that my personal life, all five or six seconds of it, was on public display, but I didn't like how she portrayed you.  And, of course, she also brought up Hank."

"I don't want to talk about him, Grissom," Sara said with finality.

"Neither do I.  But it's important.  The whole Hank ... episode ... proves that I can't give you what you want, what you need.  You had to look elsewhere."

"But you and I weren't 'involved'," Sara argued.

"Not yet," he agreed.  "But I doubt it would have turned out any differently even if we had been," he added, overwhelming sadness coloring his voice.

"You think I'd cheat on you?!" Sara shouted, pulling away from him and walking a few feet away, righteous indignation burning in her chest.

"No.  I think you'd grow tired of me.  I'm not young anymore, Sara.  I can't keep up with someone your age.  It wouldn't be all that long until you'd be dissatisfied.  Another Hank would come along ..."

"You're talking just like Westcott!  What do you think I am?  Is that all you think I'm interested in?"

"I frankly don't know what you're interested in."

"Considering how little sex I've had in the last three years, I hardly think it would be much of a challenge for you to keep up."

"I really don't want to discuss your sex life," Grissom huffed.

"Nor I yours," Sara said bitterly.  "Though it's apparently infinitely more interesting than mine.  Certainly more ... exotic."

"I didn't mean to start an argument.  I just wanted to explain why I acted like I did.  I wanted you to understand that it's not you ... it's me.  I know my limitations."

Sara whirled back around to face him, closing the gap between them so that she stood directly in front of him.  "Then what are we doing here, Grissom?  Why have you been asking me to go to breakfast?  Why were you holding my hand?"

Grissom reached out to run his hand gently up and down her arm.  "Because you stayed.  Because you made me realize that you are worth the risk.  Because I need you."

"You'll just pull away again ... when you feel 'overwhelmed'," she said, trying to temper the effect his words were having on her.  She felt that he was pulling her in, even more forcefully than he ever had before, and she had to admit to herself that she didn't trust him.

"That's why I'm trying to take it slowly – so I don't get overwhelmed.  So I don't overwhelm you.  I know you don't trust me.  You have no reason to.  I'm trying the best I know how to start over ... at the very beginning."

Grissom was still lazily stroking her arm, and his touch was soothing, but she felt compelled to touch him herself.  She reached her free hand up and laid it lightly on his chest, just over his heart.

"How slow do you need to go?" she asked, just above a whisper.

"I don't really know," he shrugged.  "It's not like I have a specific timetable," he said, with a half-grin.

"I don't want to scare you off," she said gravely, "but I'd really like to kiss you right now."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" he asked seriously.

"That's for you to judge," she said, leaning over to lightly but sensuously buff his lips, lingering but a moment.

"You know that's not what I meant," Grissom finally breathed out, once he recovered his senses.  "I was talking about judgment, not ability."

Sara smiled broadly and shrugged innocently, then moved forward to meld herself to his chest, willing him to hold her, asking no more.

Grissom obliged happily, easing his arms around her, pulling her into him, enjoying the feel of her body next to his and her head on his shoulder.  He was scared almost witless, but he had to admit that he was also ecstatic.  He thought to himself that he could be happy for the rest of his life just holding her.  He couldn't allow himself to wish for more.

"We better head back," he said gently, stroking her back with his hands.  

"Already?" she asked.

"Yes.  You may not need to sleep, but I do.  Remember, I'm not as young as you are."

"I sleep.  I just try not to make a habit of it," she joked.

Grissom moved his hands from her back to her shoulders and pushed her gently back a few inches, kissing her on the forehead before sliding out from between her and his car.

When they arrived back at the parking lot of the lab, Sara started to get out, but stopped abruptly.  "Grissom, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?  Just dinner.  I promise.  No 'let's see what happens'."

It was obvious to him that she was trying very hard to respect his need for a slow pace, but it was just as obvious to him that she had her own needs – needs he had purposefully neglected for so very long.

"It would have to be someplace discreet," he warned.

"You pick the place.  Or, we don't even have to go out, if you'd rather not.  We could eat at my apartment.  Or your house.  Whatever you feel most comfortable with."

"Just dinner," Grissom said, more than asked.

"I promise."

"Can you cook?" Grissom asked, hesitantly.

"Of course I can cook!  Duh.  I was raised in a B&B.  I just don't like to cook if I'm the only one eating.  Seems like a waste of time and energy.  But I don't mind cooking when someone else will be there to enjoy it with me."

"I don't eat tofu," Grissom said, wincing at the word.

"I won't make you eat tofu," she laughed.  "Do you like Italian food?  Pasta dishes doesn't have to have meat in them to be good."

"Sure.  Pasta and salad would be fine," he said, tacitly agreeing to dinner.

"How about coming by at 8:00?"

"That doesn't leave us much time before we have to get to work.  Only a couple of hours."

"That's the point, Grissom," she said demurely.  "No time for anything but a leisurely dinner, dessert and some coffee."

"How about 7:00, so we can still get to work early, as usual?" he suggested.

"Seven it is," she agreed, shooting him a blinding smile before she bounded out of the car.  She needed to go shopping and clean the apartment.  She could sleep some other time.

* * * * *

Grissom stood nervously at the door, his hand suspended in mid-air until he finally resolved to knock.  He took a deep breath, and rapped on the door, hoping he wasn't making a serious blunder.

At the opening of the door, he knew he had been right about the dangers of coming here.  Instead of her usual tank top and jeans, she was wearing a silk shell and flowing silk pants.  She had her hair twisted up in a bun, with ringlets sweeping down around her neck.  

"You look ... lovely," Grissom said, having to clear his throat to speak.  "I feel underdressed," he said, looking down at his usual work attire.

"You look fine, Grissom.  I have the benefit of being at home, so I can change before work.  Sometimes it's nice to be able to dress up just a little."

"I'm glad to hear you plan on changing clothes before work.  If you went in like that, I'd never get any work out of any of the male staff."

"I hope that's a compliment and not a commentary on how I usually dress," Sara said, taking his hand to lead him into the dining area.

"You usually dress in a manner that's appropriate to the job ... but you still manage to look pretty, even in a t-shirt and jeans."

"Thanks, Grissom. That's sweet of you to say," she said, beaming.  She served the dinner she had spent much of the afternoon preparing.

"This lasagna looks delicious, Sara.  What did you use in place of meat?"

"Portobello mushrooms," she answered.

As they settled into eating, they began to lose the nervousness that each had felt.  Sara offered Gil some dessert, but he turned it down, asking to save it for later.  She handed him a cup of coffee and invited him to join her in the living area.  She slipped off her shoes and curled her feet under her legs on the couch, managing to still look elegant, though casual.

Grissom took the other end of the couch, which left a little more than a foot between them, but allowed them to turn to face each other as they talked.

"I heard about the latest with you and ... um ... Catherine," Sara said, gently.

Grissom shook his head, unsure what to say.  He was afraid that the damage from the disagreement with Catherine would spread to include Sara.

"I didn't bring it up to pry, Grissom.  Your relationship with Catherine is your business, not mine. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry it's come to this.  And I wanted you to know that I'm here if you need me."

Grissom felt his chest tighten with emotion, and his eyes begin to well with unbidden and unwanted tears.  He had been afraid to let her know how much he needed her, especially now, and it was doubly affecting to him that she offered without knowing the depth of his feelings of loss.

He reached out his hand, silently asking her to come closer to him.  He needed the physical connection to make the emotional connection more concrete.  She slid over next to him, snuggling under his arm, leaning against the side of his chest.

While the contact brought him much needed peace, he longed to both hold her and look at her.  Without a word, he pulled her across his lap, supporting her with his right arm, as one might a child.  As she laid across him, silently searching his face, he stroked her hair and her face with his left hand, occasionally fascinating himself with the ringlets framing her face.

Sara was struck with the intensity of emotion, though not a word was spoken.  His caresses were not in the least bit sexual, but were the most sensual experience she had ever had.  For that moment, she was able to forget the past and enjoy the sensation of being cherished.

Grissom couldn't trust himself to speak.  Not only was he still feeling emotionally unsteady, but he couldn't think of any words that could convey what he was feeling – at least no words that he felt willing to risk saying aloud.

Without conscious thought, he pulled her up to him and kissed her forehead softly.  He slowly and gently trailed kisses over her face, studiously avoiding her lips.  These were not kisses of passion, but of reverence.  In the brief lulls between kisses, he would stroke her face and fall into the depths of her eyes, willing time to stand still so that they could stay like this forever.

Sara sat up in his lap, and took his face in her hands.  Sensing that he needed the attention more than she did, she began her own worship of his face, lightly kissing him and stroking him, avoiding his lips.

Grissom closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very unsteady again, the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.  When he opened his eyes, Sara was able to read his concern, bordering on fear.

"Don't think.  Just let yourself feel.  I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to take anything away from you.  I just want to show you how special you are to me," she said softly, punctuating her words with feather-light kisses to his face.

"Sara ..." he moaned, fearing that she was going to want more than he felt comfortable offering tonight.

"Don't worry.  I remember my promise," she whispered to him, laying her forehead against his.  "You can trust me."

She settled down into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her gratefully.  She seemed to instinctively give him just what he needed, at the moment he needed it.  When it got to be too intense for him, she backed off, without retreating.  He hoped he could someday learn to do that.

"As much as I'd love to stay like this forever, Grissom, it's time for me to change clothes and get to work.  If you leave now, you'll still be early," she said to him, gradually pushing herself up and pulling away from him.  

He felt the separation keenly, along every nerve in his body.  He was desperate to have her back in his arms, at any cost.  But he reminded himself that it was this loss of perspective that would be dangerous – for both of them.

She walked him to the door, but they froze at the threshold.  Sara knew that she wanted to cap the evening with a goodbye kiss, and she felt fairly confident he wanted the same thing.  But she took her promise seriously, and knew that he was wavering in his resolve.  

Taking a deep breath to clear her head, Sara opened the door for him and walked out with him to the porch.  "Thanks for coming over, Grissom.  I really enjoyed your company," she said sweetly, leaning over to peck him on the cheek.

Grissom smiled at her and took up one of her hands.  He brought it to his face to feel her softness once again on his cheek, then lightly kissed her palm.  "Thank you for inviting me.  And for being my friend.  I'll see you in an hour or so," he said gamely, forcing himself to pull away.  

At the bottom of the stairs he looked back up towards her door, to find her leaning against the frame, watching him.  She smiled and waved before sliding back into her apartment and shutting her door.

He chided himself for missing her already, when he would be seeing her in only an hour.  But he reminded himself that he wouldn't be seeing the same Sara, and he wouldn't be the same Gil.  It would be at least eleven hours until he could see his secret Sara again, and then only if she agreed.  His growing need for her frightened him all the more.  It seemed that the more she gave him, the more he needed.

* * * * *

"What can we do that we haven't done?" Sara asked, noting that neither he nor Catherine would look directly at each other.  

Grissom began to tick off what they had accomplished so far:  "You've processed the crime scene.  You've interviewed the accused.  Brass has questioned the ex.  You've searched her house.  Brass is arranging for a polygraph for Spencer.  I honestly don't know what else can be done."

"So you win by default," Catherine huffed.

Grissom exhaled loudly, his patience wearing thin.  "This isn't a game, and I haven't won.  If anything, I've lost something much more important to me," he said, leaving the room abruptly, the two women sitting somewhat stunned.

"Catherine, you've got to find a way to work through this," Sara said to break the strained silence.  "He's really hurting, and you probably are too."

"How do you know what he's feeling?" Catherine asked.  "Has he come crying on your shoulder?"

"No, he hasn't really discussed it at all with me," Sara answered honestly.  "I think it's obvious, though, that he's can't find his way out of this dilemma."

"And is that supposed to make me feel better?" Catherine asked.  "How many years have you been waiting on him to find his way out of a dilemma?  Did knowing that it bothered him too make it any easier on you?"

"The difference is that there were always several ways out of the dilemma he faced with our relationship.  This problem he's having with you has no way out.  He's trapped.  He can either lose his integrity as a friend or lose his integrity at work."

"Hey, let's not forget that I'm in the same boat, here," Catherine huffed out.

"I know.  Tell me what you want him to do."

"I want him to quit making this me versus him.  I want him to help me try to prove John Spencer is innocent.  I want to feel like we are working on the same side."

"Okay, you can get really mad at me if you want to, but I think that he's tried to do all of that.  It's you that's making it him versus you ... not him.  He keeps telling you that there are no sides, just evidence."

Catherine started to interrupt, but Sara held up a hand, "Let me finish, Cath, then you can unload on me."

"He's held up the DA while we've tried to find a way to clear John.  He got Brass to bring Jones in for questioning and get us a search warrant.  He helped us search her house.  What more do you want from him?  I think you want him to magically come up with a way to prove you're right, and you're mad at him because he can't do it."

Catherine eyed Sara cautiously.  "Sounds like he's done something to win you over to his side."

"Damn it, Catherine!  There are no sides!  How many times do you have to be told that?" Sara exclaimed.  "I understand that you are frustrated about the case, but he's powerless to do anything about it, unless you want him to join in on some grand conspiracy to tamper with the evidence.  Is that what he has to do to prove his worthiness as a friend?" Sara asked incredulously.

"Of course not!  I would never suggest such a thing!" Catherine yelled.

Exhaling loudly and willing herself to calm down, Sara tried a different tack.  "Cath, between the two of us, we have over 25 years of experience – almost as much as Grissom.  If we can't find a way to clear Spencer, what makes you think he can?"

Catherine let her head fall into her hands, taking a moment to reflect.  "You know, Sara, you aren't saying anything that I don't already know.  So why is he pissing me off so much?  It's not like I really expect him to be able to do more, I just need him to tell me what he's thinking, what he's feeling, instead of quoting rules, regulations, and legal precedents.  I need to feel like he's on my side ... that he's trying to help.  Instead, he's telling me why it won't work."

"Catherine, you know as well as I do that it's his way.  Most men promise you the moon, when they've got nothing to back it up with.  Grissom tells you to expect nothing, then gives what little he can."

"Tell me the truth, Sara.  Don't you sometimes just want to hear the words?  Would it kill him to say, 'Catherine, I think you're right and I'll help you all I can', instead of shooting me down?"

"He just doesn't want to get your hopes up," Sara said, shrugging.

"Sara, I just want to know if you are listening to yourself.  If you actually believe the words coming out of your mouth, then why have you been hurt by him?  And if you don't believe them, don't try selling them to me," Catherine said pointedly.

"Maybe it's easier to see when you aren't the one involved," Sara said distractedly, obviously deep in thought.  Her mind was busy recasting the last three years in a different light.  

* * * * *

Sitting at computers in separate rooms, Grissom and Catherine were simultaneously reading Sara's official report.  In it, she stated that the evidence was inconclusive.  She reasoned that the physical evidence was easily explained by the father's account, and his fingerprints on his own kitchen knife was not damning, especially since he admits that he pulled the knife from the child.

Janice Jones had a history of abusing the child, and had made threats, the report continued, and still had a key to the house.  While John Spencer had the means and the opportunity, Janice Jones had motive, means and opportunity.  Though there was no physical evidence to connect her, she should still be considered a viable suspect based on circumstantial evidence.

Sara concluded her report by advising that charges against John Spencer should be dropped until such time as more conclusive evidence was developed.

As the two finished reading the report, Sara sat pensively at her workstation re-reading her report.  She wished she had another case to escape to, not wanting to face either Grissom's disappointment or Catherine's gloating. 

Her thoughts were derailed by the insistent chirping of her beeper.  Reading the text, she was surprised to see that she was being summoned to a meeting with the District Attorney at 8:00 a.m. 

Her cell phone rang, and she was hesitant to answer it, seeing it was Catherine, but she knew that the persistent blonde would hunt her down if she had to.  

"Sidle."

"Did you get the same text message I did?" Catherine asked without preamble.

"About the DA?  Yeah," Sara answered.

"Why do we have to go?  That's Brass's and Grissom's deal."

"Maybe because of the conflicting reports," Sara ventured.

"He's going to let us twist in the wind," Catherine groaned.

"Well, we hung ourselves," Sara said heavily.

"I'm sorry we got you into this," Catherine said with a sigh.

"I think I'll go work on my resume," Sara said dejectedly, wanting to end the conversation.

"I doubt it would come to that!" Catherine rejoined.  

"I don't think they'll fire me.  I just think I might have just burned a bridge that I can't rebuild.  No use staying around to be reminded of it every day."

"You did what you thought was right.  He might be upset for a while, but he'll get over it," Catherine suggested sympathetically.

"You don't understand.  I told him he could trust me, and he was trying to.  Now he's going to feel betrayed.  That's not something I can fix."

"Is there something going on that I don't know about?" Catherine asked.

"We've been talking, trying to work some things out.  Nothing more than that really.  At least nothing serious."

"Oh my God, Sara.  I had no idea!  You were in just as bad a position as Grissom or me, having to choose between your work and your personal feelings.  And even though you ended up supporting me, I can't help but feel awful about what you gave up for it."

"I don't want to think about it right now, Cath," Sara said unevenly.  "I'll see you at 8:00."  Sara snapped the phone shut and dropped it on the table.  She lowered her face into her hands in stark dejection.

She felt the shift in the room and lifted her head tiredly, turning to see Grissom leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expressionless.  Sara swallowed with difficulty, her mouth seeming to fill with cotton.

"Do you have any idea of the position you've put me in?" he asked sternly, but not as angrily as she had expected.

"I ... I ..." she stumbled, unable to put the fragments of thoughts into a coherent sentence.

"Did you mean any of the things you said to me earlier?" he asked.

"Yes," she squeaked out.  "I meant all of them."

"But?" 

"But, I had to do what I thought was right, Grissom.  Please try to understand," she said, dropping her face into her hands again to escape his eyes.

She felt him pull her hands away from her face, and she saw that he was standing directly in front of her.  He didn't release her hands, leaving her powerless to hide from him.

"I do understand," he said softly.  "We all had to do what we thought was right, regardless of the personal sacrifices we had to make."

"If I had only known ..." Sara began, lowering her eyes.

"What would you have done differently?" Gil asked her, cocking his head to the side and leaning over to look into her eyes.

"I wouldn't have gotten involved, I guess."

"Would that have been the right thing to do?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, shaking her head.  "I guess not.  But now you think ..."

"You have no idea what I think," Grissom cut her off.

"You probably think you can't trust me, that I don't support you," she said, sniffing.

"On the contrary.  If anything, you've proven that I can trust you.  I can trust that you won't let anything that happens between us interfere with your integrity.  If you had chosen otherwise, I would have had to ... withdraw," he answered solemnly.

Sara's head snapped up, and she looked at him with a curious mixture of confusion and hopefulness.  "You mean ...?"

"Come on.  Let's go get something to eat before we have to meet with the District Attorney," he suggest, pulling her from her chair.

"Why do Catherine and I have to go?" Sara asked, almost whining.

"Because I said so," he said teasingly.

"You just want us to suffer," she pouted.

"That's what you get for going against the Supervisor," he countered.

"This is completely surreal.  You know that, right?  We are at odds at work, but we're about to go enjoy a meal together, then go back to a meeting where we will disagree again."  

"Now maybe you can see why office relationships are discouraged."

"I really only thought about it in terms of public displays of affection.  I never really thought about how disagreements in one area would affect the other."

"Well, you might soon get a crash course in it."

"Grissom, I would understand if you want to ... back off ... at least for a while," Sara said, unable to look him in the eye.

"I just asked you to go eat with me.  Does that sound like I want to back off?" he asked.

"You may change your mind after the meeting," she said, wincing.

"Maybe.  But I'm not going to think about that right now.  I just want to spend some time with you away from work."

"Are you really hungry?  I don't think I could eat," she said, unconsciously putting a hand protectively across her stomach.

"I can wait to eat.  What did you have in mind?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Let's just go somewhere.  Anywhere that's not here," she answered.

"Meet me at my house.  We can while away the time before the meeting."

Sara smiled at him, but there was still sadness in her eyes, and more than a touch of fear.  

* * * * *

His townhouse was essentially just as she remembered it, with perhaps a few more books on the shelf.  Unlike her apartment, which had little of her in it, his house was a reflection of him, just as his office was.  He surrounded himself with the things that interested him, and she could feel that this was a place of retreat for him, a comforting cocoon.  

He led her to the couch, where there were already two steaming cups of coffee on the table before them.  She sat next to him and allowed him to pull her in tight.  She leaned into him, tugging his arm protectively around her to her chest.  He sighed contently, but she could feel the tension in his body.

Standing up suddenly, she commanded, "Lie down.  On your stomach."

Grissom looked up at her confused.

"Just lie down.  Just trust me," she said soothingly.

Grissom slid down and turned over slowly – almost reluctantly.

Sara sat on the edge of the couch and began to rub his shoulders and back.  "Tell me if I rub too hard," she warned.

"Um hum," he agreed.

"You're very tense," Sara noted, kneading a series of knots in his shoulder muscles.

"Um hum."

"Preverbal, are we?" she asked, laughing.

"Um hum."

She moved down from his shoulders to the muscles along his spine, working her thumbs into the taut bands of muscle.  Grissom flinched a bit, and she stopped.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, concerned.

"No.  Feels good," he said, his words almost slurring drunkenly.

Once she had worked her way back up to his shoulders and neck again, she had to stop when her hands began to cramp from the unaccustomed activity.

"Now it's your turn," Grissom said, trading places with her.  He began gingerly kneading her shoulders, fearful that he might hurt her.  

"You're going to have to rub harder than that," she directed.  

"I'm afraid that I'll hurt you," Grissom demurred.

"I'm tougher than you give me credit for," she countered.

Taking her cue, he began to work her muscles in earnest, bringing a contented moan from her depths.  

"The only thing that would feel better right now would be if I were wearing nothing but a towel, and you had some massage oil," she said with a sigh.

"Maybe next time," Grissom rejoined, surprising her.

"Um.  That felt good," Sara said sleepily, as she sat back up.  Grissom took his place on the couch, but was lying half across it, one leg on and one off.  He pulled her down on top of him, covering himself with her like a security blanket.  Her two days with little sleep, the tingling relaxation of the massage, and his closeness joined together to lull her to sleep.  

Grissom smiled and stroked her hair, feeling her breathing slow and her body relax onto his.  While it wasn't the 'real thing', he could imagine that this would be what it's like to wake up with her in his arms.  He found the thought more exciting and less frightening than usual.  

After a half-hour, he was forced to rouse her so that they could have a few minutes to gather themselves before heading over to the meeting.  

"Sara, honey, you need to wake up," he bade softly, stroking her face and planting soft kisses in her hair.

She assumed she was dreaming, but awoke to find the reality was even sweeter than her imagination.  She propped herself up a bit on her forearms, careful not to gouge his chest, and hovered over his face, her hair streaming down to tickle his cheeks.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked.

"No," he answered shakily, rocking his head under her.

"Okay," she said, a little disappointed, but determined to give him the time and space he needed, especially now.

"Sara, it's not that I don't want you to kiss me.  It's just that we've got to get to the meeting, and I know that if I let you kiss me, we will definitely be late."

"Pretty sure of yourself, huh?" she teased.

"Pretty sure of what that will do to me," he countered, pushing her up gently.

"I get the bathroom first," she squealed, bounding down the hall to search out the lavatory.  

"By all means.  Ladies first," Grissom laughed, gathering their cups and placing them in the sink.  

"You look refreshed," Grissom noted when she came back into the room.

"A massage, going to sleep in your arms, waking up to your voice.  Life just doesn't get much better than that," she said with a smile.

When they got down to the parking lot, Grissom surprised her with, "I'll drive." 

"I've got my car here," Sara said.

"And with any luck at all, it will still be here when you get back," he said, opening the passenger door for her.

"Not very discreet to show up together," she said, pausing at the door.

"Nothing indiscreet about sharing a ride.  It's ecologically sound."

"I'm sure that's the first thing everyone will think of," she said, one eyebrow raised.

"I just want to make sure you'll come back," he admitted.

"If you still want me to come back after the meeting, I'll come back," she assured him.

Grissom led her to her car and opened the door for her.  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.  

* * * * *

One at a time, the three CSIs met Brass outside of the District Attorney's office.  He nervously glanced at his watch, glad they had a minute or two before they had to go in.  

"Let me start off with the DA.  You'll each get your chance.  But no arguing, understand?  We can present different perspectives, but we can't afford to argue.  The more professional we are, the more likely we are to survive this meeting.  Got it?"

He was pleasantly surprised that he got no argument, as all three nodded their assent.  

"Good.  Let's get this over with," he sighed, opening the door and holding it for the others to pass through.

"We have an eight o'clock with the DA," Brass told the secretary, with a smile.

"Please be seated.  I'll let him know you're here," she said, returning the smile.

In a moment, the inner door opened, and the District Attorney, Bob Clarkston, waved them in.  

Brass and Grissom sat directly in front of the DA, with Sara to Grissom's left and Catherine to Brass's right.  He had the case file open in front of him, with several of the photos laying about his desktop.

"So, Jim, tell me what we've got here," Clarkston said, leaning back in his chair.

Brass outlined the basic details of the case for the District Attorney.  Clarkston leaned forward at the end of Jim's summary and picked up the file, flipping through the pages.  

Brass shifted nervously in his chair, waiting for the DA to speak.  

"Gil, I see that you and Catherine did the initial evidence collection and analysis."

"Yes," Grissom answered.

"Then, a few days later, Sara was added to the case."

"Yes."

"Why?" Clarkston asked, peering over the file at Grissom.

"We felt the need for another set of eyes," he answered without elaboration.

"The evidence seems pretty clear-cut to me," Clarkston said, picking up the photo of the bloodied knife.

Catherine moved as though to speak, but Brass barely lifted a hand from the armrest of his chair and minutely shook his head.  She eased back into her chair.

Grissom looked the District Attorney in the eye and said, "The evidence is inconclusive."  

Trying not to call attention to themselves, both Sara and Catherine nevertheless shifted their eyes towards him in surprise.

"What do you mean?" the DA asked, confused.

"It's summarized in Sara's report.  There are two suspects.  One who had motive, means and opportunity.  One who had means and opportunity, but no motive.  The physical evidence could be caused by a number of scenarios, only one of which is the murder of the child.  I would not be willing to testify that the evidence definitively inculpates the accused."

"Do you concur, Captain Brass?" the District Attorney asked.

"Yes, I do," he nodded.

"Well, I can hardly go to trial with the detective and the criminalists on the opposing side, can I?" he asked rhetorically.

The four breathed a collective sigh of relief, but said nothing.

"Any chance that you'll be able to tie the other suspect to the crime?" he asked Brass.

"I doubt it," he said, heavily.

The DA looked at each of the CSIs in turn, each shaking their heads 'no'.

Clarkston sighed loudly, shoving the pictures back into the file and slamming it shut.  "I've got to get to court.  Let me know if anything breaks loose," Clarkston said, dismissing them.

Outside in the hall, Brass turned to Grissom, "Well, your plan seems to have worked, and we all still have our jobs.  That went a lot better than I expected."  Brass patted Grissom on the shoulder, smiled, and took his leave.

Sara and Catherine stood, dumbfounded.  Grissom was uncomfortable under their stares, and began walking down the hall.

"Hey, Gil!" Catherine called out, catching up to him.  "What did Jim mean when he said 'your plan'?"

"I told you we'd have to present the evidence to the District Attorney, for him to make a decision.  After our disagreement, I began to rethink the possibilities.  I never said that I wouldn't help you," he answered.

"You could have told me," Catherine said in frustration, but putting her hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't ask me," he said, shrugging.  "And it was necessary to continue to look for more evidence.  The meeting could have gone very differently.  Brass and I could easily have been put through the ringer for this."

"That's why you wanted us here.  So we'd know that you stood up for us, and that anything that happened wasn't your fault," Sara said.

"If he had gone ahead with the charges, would you have believed that I had tried to help?" Grissom asked, looking at each in turn.

"Probably not, but it's your own damned fault!" Catherine chided, slapping him lightly across the arm.  "If you had only told me that you saw things differently days ago, and that you were going to help, I would have believed that you did your best."

"I've been helping you all along, and you still didn't see it," Grissom said.

"She did," Catherine said, nodding towards Sara.  

Catherine saw the look that passed between them before they turned their eyes from each other, and decided that discretion was the better part of valor.  "I've got to get home.  I'll see you guys tonight," she said, smiling and hugging each in turn.

"Well, what are your plans for the day?" Grissom asked, leading Sara down the hall.

"I plan to kiss you," she said nonchalantly.  "Just to see what happens."


End file.
